


Why You

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchors, Between Seasons/Series, Blood, Feral Derek, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Stiles is Derek's Anchor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I received a Tumblr prompt for feral!Derek and Stiles being the only one who can reach him. I think this fic takes place somewhere in the between land of season two and three? I’m not sure. Chris Argent is still anti-werewolf, Scott has floppy hair and Derek is still an unhelpful Alpha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why You

**Author's Note:**

> There's no real depicted violence, though violence is referenced later on, but there is a scene in which blood is being cleaned off someone. This could be considered disturbing, so please tread carefully.

“Christ,” Stiles whispers to himself.

Derek has blood all up his arms, his claws long and sharp, his fangs almost serpentine, glistening lethally in the moonlight. His shirt is mostly gone, tattered from the ground fighting that proved lethal for two of Chris Argent’s men. His eyes are glowing crimson, his muscles are strung tight and ten minutes into completely futile negotiations, Derek has wounded Scott and Isaac. When they call his name, nothing on his face even slightly resembles recognition. 

Scott is the only thing standing between Derek’s crumpled silhouette and Chris Argent’s gun. He stands with his arms spread wide, his own blood from Derek’s injury to him smattered across his face and chest. The gash in his shoulder has already started healing.

“You _can’t_ shoot him,” Scott demands, “Your men are the ones that did this to him!”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, can’t you see that?” Chris shouts, gesturing with his loaded gun at Derek, “It doesn’t matter whether or not my men exposed him to the wolfsbane, what matters is that he is dangerous _right now_!”

“It _does_ matter!” Scott argues, “You set him up! You’re just trying to find a way to justify killing him, but you know deep down that Derek isn’t dangerous!”

“Are you blind, McCall?” Chris snaps, “He just killed two men! He doesn’t know his own name! He tried to _kill you_!”

“That’s not him!” Scott declares, “That’s not Derek!”

Derek stretches out a little, though it looks painful. The shadows the overhanging leaves create over him make patterns like broken glass across his skin. Stiles can’t see Derek’s pupils anymore. His own eyes move rapidly back and forth between Derek’s hunched form and Argent’s gun. His heart is an orchestra all its own.

Stiles watches the heart of Derek’s bloody palm kneed into his chest, like he’s trying to smother a fire inside himself. His brows are furrowed deeply, his fangs won’t fit in his mouth, his ears are pointed and his hair is standing up. 

Stiles wonders if maybe Derek is cold.

He contemplates whether or not one of his jackets will fit over Derek’s swollen muscles.

He steps forward. 

No one notices.

He takes another step forward and then both Chris and Scott have their eyes plastered to him.  


“What are you doing, Stiles?” Chris asks warningly, “Get behind me.”

“He’s trapped in there,” Stiles says softly, thoughtfully.

“What?” Chris asks.

Scott looks at Stiles worriedly, “Stiles - don’t get close. He really doesn’t recognize any of us.”

Stiles glances at Isaac on the ground, the deep gash across his chest healing excruciatingly slowly. Isaac meets his eyes and nods, as if to confirm what Stiles is saying, even though Stiles isn’t sure of what he’s saying. He shakes his head, unable to respond to Scott. He takes another step forward, passing Chris and he hears Chris readjust his gun.

“Stiles!” He barks, “Don’t get any closer! Get back here!”

“Stiles, you probably should,” Scott advises quietly.

“He’s trapped in there,” Stiles repeats.

He only half registers Chris and Scott calling after him, telling him to come back as he walks towards Derek. Derek is watching him, still struggling to breathe, still pushing out the fire in his heart. 

He moves so slowly, so gingerly, it feels like it takes hours to come within fifty feet of Derek. At Scott’s request, Isaac goes to protect Stiles and Derek lunges toward him, roaring and sending Isaac toppling backward in fear.

Stiles stares wide-eyed at Derek, keeping his hands visible. 

He can hear the wind flowing through the tree tops, he can feel all the leaves crunching beneath his converse. He’s close enough now that he can hear Derek breathing, see the gooseflesh on his arms, see the sweat beading around his face.

“Hey,” Stiles mutters lamely.

Derek makes a huffing noise, taking a single step towards Stiles that has Stiles’ heart racing, but he doesn't move back. Derek’s arms are still tucked inward, his back still a bit hunched when he leans forward to scent the air. His mouth is distractingly parted, his chin is a little bloody, his fangs are white as the moonlight.

“Recognize that stink?” Stiles asks, spreading his arms out, “That’s your friend Stiles’ stink.”

Derek tilts his head to the side a bit, nothing communicable going on around his face. Stiles wonders if the wolfsbane will ever wear off. He worries for the first time whether or not Derek can come back from this. He outstretches an arm, keeping his palm up and hand limp, relaxed. 

“You in there, Big Guy?”

Derek inspects Stiles’ hand cautiously, becoming so singularly focused on it that Stiles begins to worry Derek might be thinking of eating it. He turns his hand to the side, like he might be going for a handshake, but he doesn’t flex any of his fingers or muscles. His arm starts to tingle and ache from being held up and out for so long while Derek stares blindly at him.

There’s a sudden sound, a vision of Derek moving forward and fear clamps Stiles’ eyes closed. His heart is hammer on anvil in his head, but then he feels something warm and sort of damp in his hand. He peaks an eye open and sees Derek bending to turn his face towards Stiles’ palm. His hair and face are sweaty, his eyes are lidded and Stiles can hear a low grade growling going on that could be mistaken for purring.

“H-hey there,” Stiles greets, opening his eyes fully.

He watches in awe as Derek steps closer and closer, coming into his space until he’s standing before Stiles, jugular bouncing violently. 

“Okay, alright - hi - hi there, uh - you -”

Then Derek’s tongue sweeps broadly along Stiles’ wrist, his nose moving up Stiles’ clothed forearm, breathing deeply. Stiles gets the idea he’s looking for skin. He brings his face up to Stiles’, his pupils so small, a pin would struggle to fit through. His broad, bloody hands come to rest on Stiles’ stomach. The blood is still warm and it gives Stiles chills.

Derek bumps his nose against Stiles’ cheek, the smooth bone of his fangs a thrill and a threat against Stiles’ flustered skin. He tucks his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck and inhales. His claws poke Stiles’ skin through his many layers, but they don’t hurt and Stiles doesn’t think Derek is trying to hurt him.

He swallows and becomes self-conscious about Derek seeing the bob of his throat. Everything feels too warm and Stiles realizes that Derek may just decide to rip his throat out with his overgrown fangs, but fear keeps far from the forefront of his mind. He bends his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to Derek, praying with his eyes shut that Derek doesn’t Turn him. 

After huffing for a while against Stiles’ neck, Derek pulls back enough to look him in the eye. Stiles opens his, heavy-lidded, feeling drugged. He can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline having an effect on him or if he’s getting a wolfsbane contact high. When he meets Derek’s stare, he sees right away that Derek’s pupils have dilated. They’re worryingly wide now. His irises are still a thin ring of scarlet, there’s still something lost and cornered in Derek’s expression.

“Stiles,” Derek rasps.

Stiles’ heart trips over itself. Derek sort of slurs his name with a lisp, his fangs are still too big for his mouth, but he says it like it’s the only word he knows. He says it like it’s the only thing he’s sure of.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, nodding his head encouragingly, “Yeah, that’s right.”

His nose trails up Stiles’ temple, breathing in by his scalp.

“Stiles,” he whispers again.

Stiles’ eyes prickle with relief. His hands come up to touch at Derek’s arms gingerly. He smiles calmly and answers,

“Yes. It’s me.”

Derek’s arms move around Stiles’ torso, worming against his back and dragging him in close. He holds Stiles against him, his gooseflesh smoothing out, his ears shrinking a little.

“Stiles,” Derek says just a bit more clearly, his fangs having retracted.

“That’s right, that’s good, dude, you’re doing great.”

He hugs Derek back, hoping it will ground him and not make him feel trapped. He sighs against Derek’s bloody shoulder, profoundly grossed out, but also immensely relieved. He smiles, backing away from the cliff of Almost Losing Derek.

Derek pulls away a few inches, looking down at his bloody arms. His pupils are gigantic, his skin is pallid.

“Mm…” he struggles for words while Stiles watches him closely, “Mm… hurt you?”

Stiles shakes his head, amazed by Derek speaking, “No - no, man, you didn’t hurt me.”

Derek nods and then promptly collapses onto Stiles, pushing them both to the ground in a heap of dead, heavy muscle and squirming limbs.

* * *

Stiles wakes up leaning against Deaton’s office wall. His head lolled back, his back aches horribly and his knees are cramped from sitting pretzeled on the hard floor. He blinks awake and finds himself being watched by Derek on the examination table, who he last saw sleeping. His heart skips a beat and he rubs his eyes into wakefulness.

He looks around the room for Scott, who was last speaking to Deaton around one of the desks, but the room is empty besides them. He looks at Derek and Derek mumbles,

“They’re out in the lobby.”

“Dude, you have your full vocab back? That’s sick!” Stiles celebrates, “Deaton made ya the right anti-bane?”

Derek rolls his eyes, shifting to his side to better face Stiles.

“It’s not even a strain of wolfsbane. It’s just an antidote.”

“Right, right,” Stiles replies flippantly, “Antidote. So… you feel okay?”

There’s a long pause. Stiles even begins to think that Derek may not have heard him.

“I don’t know if I’d call it okay,” Derek answers gradually, “But I don’t feel homicidal anymore.”

“That’s always good,” Stiles comments, “Punching your way through a guy’s chest cavity would probably sap me dry of my homicidal urges too.”

Silence floods the room again and Stiles wonders sort of angrily how Derek can look good even under fluorescent lights. 

He remembers he was part of the crew that helped to clean Derek’s face and torso while he was out. Deaton was spectacularly interested in hearing Stiles’ play-by-play of the showdown while he had Isaac help him put together some hoo-doo anti-bane potion. Both Stiles and Scott cleaned Derek off with wet cloths, officially ruining the few good ones Deaton had, permanently staining them red, red, red.

Stiles found some solace in cleaning out the blood from under Derek’s human nails. It felt like all he could do to comfort Derek - to wipe away the evidence that he’d been used as weapon again. Though Scott had already cleaned the blood off Derek’s chin, Stiles moved a cool wash cloth over Derek’s face. He cleared away the panicked sweat by his brows and temples, he cleaned off the specks of dirt, he wiped behind Derek’s peanut ears, along his hairline and over his scruff. He resisted the urge to pet through Derek’s soft, mussed hair.

Once Derek was clean and Deaton had injected his veins with whatever the Hell he’d thrown together, Stiles had collapsed against the wall and let the adrenaline crash begin. He fell asleep there to the murmur of Scott and Deaton discussing what to do about Argent. He wouldn’t have been useful in the conversation anyway, considering his only input was the suggestion that they kill him. Scott never agrees to Stiles’ murder suggestions and Stiles is going to lecture Scott on why that’s hurting their friendship.

He glances up at Derek’s steady stare, wondering blearily if Derek can still feel the blood on his arms, still smell it in his nostrils. He wonders if Derek remembers everything or if it’s all a fog. 

“Scott won’t let me kill Argent.”

Derek’s brows move in surprise and something like a smile tugs at his lips.

“Pity.”

Stiles smiles at him and mumbles, “you had us worried there for a while that you might, uh… be stuck like that, you know?”

Derek doesn’t nod or shake his head or indicate at all that he heard Stiles. He only watches Stiles, carefully blank. 

“So, uhm. Glad you’re back,” Stiles says.

After a tense and quiet moment, Derek nods and Stiles relaxes minutely. He looks down at his fidgeting hands, playing with the inseam of his dirty jeans. He starts quietly,

“Uhm… why me?”

He looks up into Derek’s light green-blue-grey eyes and immediately loses his courage. He shakes his head.

“Nevermind. Forget I said that,” Stiles requests, shifting to get up.

“Stay there,” Derek says.

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s an order or a plea, but he stays seated. Derek slides off the table and when Stiles is distracted by the glint of the black buckle on Derek’s belt, he notices the blood drying on the waist of his jeans. He worries that it’s bothering Derek, weighing him down with guilt. Stiles admonishes himself inwardly for not having thought to bring Derek a change of clothes.

Derek sinks to the floor, crouching in front of Stiles on one knee. 

“Is it okay for me to touch you?”

Stiles’ heart thunders and his stomach twists nervously. He nods and Derek’s hand comes to cup his cheek, mirroring how Stiles’ hand had rested against Derek’s face when he didn’t know who he was.

Stiles glances down at the hand brushing his cheek, then back up into Derek’s heady gaze. He feels his neck get hot.

“I don’t know whether I should apologize or thank you.”

Stiles didn’t really know Derek was capable of doing either of those things.

He doesn’t want to say that, though.

He’s a little frightened by what he _wants_ to say.

“You don’t have to do either,” Stiles assures him, voice made uncertain by the relentless bumping of his heart.

Derek leans his head forward carefully, resting his forehead against Stiles’. Their noses touch, their breaths make a warm air between them and Derek’s lashes are dark and thick and long. His eyes pierce into Stiles’ and it effects every nerve in Stiles’ body.

Derek tilts his face, moving up and he places a kiss against the corner of Stiles’ eye, then on the curve of his cheekbone. They’re slow kisses. They’re deliberate and there’s a promise or a hope in the pressure they push against Stiles’ warm skin. Derek pulls back, his thumb moving back and forth against the flesh of Stiles’ freckled cheek.

“You’re more afraid of me now than you were in the woods.”

“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” Stiles whispers.

Derek gazes deeply into his eyes, like he’s searching for something he doesn’t know how to find. Stiles looks determinedly back into Derek’s, yelling at himself inside his own head that it’s just a genetic pattern being reflected in perceivable color in Derek’s iris and there’s no reason to be so emotional about it. His heart and lungs have something else entirely to say on the matter.

“You’re really close,” Stiles mentions.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, his throat tight.

Derek intakes deeply, shutting his eyes. 

Stiles watches the relaxation break over Derek’s face, loosening the usually tightly strung nerves under his brow and around his eyes. When Derek opens his eyes, he’s unreadable again. He stands up and offers Stiles his hand.

“Scott’s just told Isaac and Deaton he can hear your heart pounding. They’re coming to check up on us.”

Stiles takes his hand, standing up and hearing one of the hall doors open and close, footfalls bouncing against the closed office door.

While the footsteps grow louder, Derek leans into his space again, still holding his hand and kisses his lips. It’s quick, it’s barely there and Stiles would wonder if it happened at all if he couldn’t feel the phantom of it tickling his mouth. Derek’s hand tightens around his.

Stiles gapes wide-eyed into Derek’s heavy stare and just as the door is being pushed open, Derek mutters closely to his ear,

“That’s why you.”


End file.
